"Don't be afraid, Harry." A short, plump, brown haired counsellor told Harry as he sat in a plain white box room, his hands ringing with anxiety. The Muggle that Harry happened to be talking to, Julia Smith, had no idea who or what had happened to Harry. He had yet to fill her mind with the disastrous information that flooded his. 'I must not tell lies' was still etched in white on his right hand, which was now clenched around his left; both his hands shook with sheer fright. 'Merlin,' Harry thought, 'I've fought Dark Wizards, giant snakes and spiders, but I can't talk to a Muggle woman about what happened.' Harry shifted his glasses back onto his nose, sniffed loudly, and sighed. "How did it start?"
"I was down a little back alley in London..." Harry began, already regretting the decision to open his mouth.
"Why were you down a back alley in the first place, honey?" Julia fondled a lock of her curled hair as she searched Harry- as if his eyes would tell the truth that he so desperately avoided.
"It's usually perfectly safe, and I needed a present for a friend." Harry started off blunt, then came to sound guilty- as if his tardiness and poor memory was to blame for this horrible incident. "I've been going there since I was eleven."
"Then what happened?" Julia asked, almost bursting with questions for the uncomfortable boy. Harry had just begun his eighth year, when the near unthinkable happened.
"I was happily strolling along, I had a...um... torch out so I could see the way, but apart from that, it was pitch black. It must have been around eight o'clock, and I took a short cut down this other alley to get to the shops, when I hear a sort of rustling sound." Harry breathed slowly, his legs now shaking, as he'd clasped his hands together and near enough sat on them. "I thought it was a fox or a cat or something, because aside myself and a few people my age, I was alone."
"So you went to the alley by yourself, knowing the risks?" Julia pressed, her boldly painted nails making her resemble Rita Skeeter more and more by the second.
"It wasn't my fault! I go there enough by myself in the dark! Why wouldn't I then?!" Slowly, anger dripped out of Harry. Hermione had been right, maybe a Muggle counsellor hadn't been the best idea, but Harry was too easily recognisable with his own kind. "So yes, I did!" He shook his head clear, and continued talking, "and there he was." Harry was now aware of how much he was sweating; cold, clammy beads fell down his nose and collected onto his glasses. A vivd flash back played in Harry's mind as he spoke. "I didn't see who he was... but he came behind me... he...touched me. I didn't like it, and I tried to call for help. But...he covered my mouth. I tired to bite, but... he only reacted well. He thrust me against the wall, pulled down my jeans...and...and..." Harry was sure that he was nearly crying. "He raped me." Julia blinked; quite clearly she had not been expecting that so suddenly. Maybe three or four sessions into the term, and Harry might have told her. But the first one? Shocked, she quickly noted down what Harry said, pulled the most welcoming face she could, and addressed Harry.
"Do you have anyone at home, Mr Potter?" Harry shook his head. "Find someone." She pointed to the door, placed her glasses on her nose, and muttered, utterly disinterested, "you may go, Mr Potter."

Harry didn't feel like Apparating. It was nearly lunch time in the centre of London, and all Harry wanted was to sleep. Maybe not even sleep; just not be there. The route to his suburban apartment was reasonably busy, so Harry fished into his light washed jeans, found some Muggle money, and caught the bus. Grabbing a quick coffee on the way, Harry got home for the modest time of one o'clock. He opened and shut the door lazily, after fumbling with the lock. Most of the people in the apartment were Witches, Wizards or at least Squibs. In fact, Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan shared a flat across the hall. It's nice, Harry thought, having friends so close. The flat was strewn with various magical and non-magical items. He had a full Muggle kitchen and bathroom, and his fireplace had a large flower pot of floo powder next to it. The mantlepiece was littered with photo's and trophies. The most notable of the former, was a large, framed picture of Dumbledore's Army, and next to it, The Order of the Phoenix. He smiled vaguely as his parent's, along with Alice and Neville Longbottom, Sirius, Lupin and Mad-eye, waved up at him. On the coffee table, a photo album of James and Lily potter was laid with the most care of anything in Harry's flat. He threw the remaining coffee in the bin, and slumped on the sofa. He stared at the fireplace for a minute before lighting it. It crackled, so lucky, Harry thought bitterly, that it can't feel a thing.

It appeared that Harry had drifted off to the hateful thoughts of cold-heartedness, as he awoke to an unfamiliar smell. His glasses had fallen off in his sleep, and were on the floor when Harry stirred. He inhaled deeply, and tried to alocate the smell to a memory- only one came to mind. Fiendfire. "D-Draco?" True to his thoughts, the fire glowed green and crackled less, and Draco's warm smell floated through Harry's apartment like hot pie in winter. "W-What?" Harry placed his glasses on his nose, yawned once, and sat straight up. And there he was; Draco Malfoy. He sat in Harry's sitting room, and he had a small shoe box on his lap. Draco's blonde hair looked as if hands had been through it two dozen times, his steel eyes were no longer as strong and imposing as they once were, and the bags that would occupy under a normal teenager's eyes were not purple and tired, but red raw and angry. Draco had thrown his grey coat over the back of the chair he perched on, his pointed black shoes were off and undone, and he looked as if he'd been sat on the space next to Harry for quite a while. Harry glanced at his watch to find that it was now seven o'clock.
"I'm here, Harry." Draco poked around in the box that was on his lap, and frowned disapprovingly. Draco didn't speak with the sharpness that he used to, and his drawl was a lot less pronounced. If Harry had been looking properly, however, he would have seen that Draco was crying. "I spoke to Hermione." His tone was soft, as if edging into a freezing pool, wanting but unwilling. Harry's eyes came into focus, and he noticed what Draco was doing.
"Leave that!" He tried to make his voice sound casual, but it came out desperate. "Please." He relented, and asked the Slytherin seriously.
"Harry," Draco tore his eyes away from the gathering of sharp objects in the shoe box he held, "arms." Draco put the box back under the living chair after replacing the lid, and looked at Harry carefully.
Harry shook his head firmly, "why did you speak to Hermione?"
"Don't change the subject!" Draco demanded an answer; it was like Julia all over again. Harry tugged up his sleeve, mumbling under his breath. On the right arm; nothing. A few bruises and scrapes here and there, but nothing that Draco could justify worrying about. Before Harry pulled up his left sleeve, he noticed Draco for the first time. He noticed how is cold, grey eyes were watering, and warming up the entire room. He noticed how his pale face was drained of every speck of colour it could possess. He noted how that, on Draco's chiseled, perfect, cheeks, there were grubby tear tracks. He noticed how Draco's face had not fallen into a repulsed sneer, but instead a worried frown, making his brow crinkle, carefully defining his eye sockets. He saw Draco pull away his hand when Harry went to pull up his left sleeve. He noticed, probably for the first time, in hindsight, that Draco actually cared. Immediately regretting the actions of every night for the past month, Harry slipped up his sleeve. Harry's arms, being a natural born Seeker, were quite slim anyway. But now, it seemed like he'd be disallowed food for years. Bones almost stuck out of his malnourished arms, which seemed to have been attacked by Thestrals. Draco's face dropped as he realised what he had dreaded had become true. His hand was outstretched before he knew it, and clasping Harry's left hand. Harry's hand was sweaty, and he felt ashamed of what he'd done. But as if he'd had his mind read, Draco started talking. "I was a painter, once. When my father went to Azkaban, I painted every night, in my bathroom, alone. Mum never saw my paintings, they wouldn't appeal to her. But I painted." He looked at Harry's eyes longingly, though quickly hid the gaze by looking at Harry's arm, which he still held dearly, "I stopped, Harry." Draco watched Harry as he stared at his own arm, carved with bad thoughts, nightmares and anguish. Harry pulled down his sleeves, swallowed hard, and looked at Draco.
"Why did you talk to Hermione? I haven't seem anyone in weeks." Harry mumbled the last few words from behind his hands. It was true; Harry had been living in a secluded flat, only occasionally seeing Dean or Seamus when he was popping to the shops. He even worked at home, filing all his things away, and barely answering any owls.
"She came into my office, asking about you."
"Why would she ask you?"
"Well, after you and She-Weasel split up-"
"Don't call her that!"
"Okay! After you and Ginny parted ways, we were kinda close..."
"Not this again, Malfoy! You don't even care what happened to me!"
By now, both boys were stood up, with fists clenched, on the verge of shouting.
"Of course I care, Potter! But you can't deny what went on between us!"
"Nothing happened, Malfoy!" Harry lunged for the discarded wand on the coffee table.
Draco quickly armed his, "no!" He breathed heavily, his beautifully sculpted chest heaving up and down. "Don't, Harry! I care! Look, sit down, and we'll talk about this!"
Harry collapsed onto the table, waved his wand, and summoned two coffee's. "I'm getting help."
"From that Muggle woman..."
"She's a squib, you know?" Harry glared at Malfoy, and sipped his drink.
"Well, that doesn't matter, as long as she's helping you." Harry grunted as Draco spoke. "Are you gonna tell me?"
Harry sighed, and set his drink and wand down. "I was in Knockturn Alley, looking for uh...your birthday present..."
Draco's pale, tear tracked face blushed almost scarlet, and his hands shook the mug in his hand. He remained silent, however, intent on hearing and helping his traumatized friend.
"I'd just come out of Borgin and Burkes, and decided to take a short cut to the Leaky Cauldron that I'd used a couple of times in the day. Well, I had the present under my jacket, because it was raining, and I snuck into the Alley. Even during the day, it was deserted, so I was confident I'd be safe. Besides, I had my wand- what harm could I come to?" Harry began to stutter when he spoke, "I-I was a-about half way d-down the a-alley w-when s-someone came o-out of n-nowhere and..." Draco ran a warm hand over Harry's back, and moved closer to the close to tears Gryffindor. "It's never going away, Draco." Harry's green eyes were unusually still, but brimming with flaming hot tears. "He hurt me, and it's never going away, is it?"
"I..." Draco was crying openly; his hands were busy between rubbing Harry's back and wiping his own tears. "I don't think so, Harry. I am so sorry. This is all my fault."
"Don't say that, Draco..." Harry's nose was full of snot, and it was detectable only by his nasally voice. "I got raped, not you."
Draco shook his head weakly, picked up his wand, and held his other hand at the bottom of Harry's right arm. "May I?"
"No th-" Harry paused, his words hanging on a small syllable. He shrugged, and mumbled, "go ahead." Draco lifted Harry's sleeve to his elbow, and healed each and every cut- be it deep and oozing with blood, or a small scratch on the back of his hand, or the row of burns on his inner arm. When Draco was done, he saw that Harry's face was distant and blank.
"You didn't need to buy me anything for my birthday." Draco whispered, putting his wand on the table. Harry picked up his mug of coffee silently, and gulped it down, as if daring himself not to speak. Eventually, when Harry's mug was drained, he spoke.
"You were very special to me, Draco, of course I was to buy you something."
"Your company was- and always is- enough, Harry." Draco's hand rested on Harry's, making the Gryffindor's inside glow a heavenly gold. Harry sniffed, and encased Draco in a hug. "Is this why you're all up here alone, Harry?" Draco said, without taking notice that the hug was longer than one of just friends, "to be alone?"
"I thought someone was going to hurt me." Harry grasped Draco's messy, clean hair and inhaled it's smell. "L-Like I hurt you."
"Year's ago." Draco's voice was soft and forgiving. He let Harry collapse into him. "I know you're sorry, Harry, I know it." For a minute still, Draco embraced Harry, then he held him at arms length, and smiled a pathetic smile. "I won't hurt you, Harry. You just have to let me be here." Draco was now sitting cross legged, facing Harry, on the sofa opposing the fireplace. It crackled still, but it had turned to it's natural colour of red, orange and yellow. The wood in it appeared to be moaning as another piece fell into the hearth.
"I'd love you to be here, Draco... I just..."
"You're scared."
"Yes."
"Do you trust me?"
Harry hesitated.
"Do you, Harry?"
"Yes." Draco held one of Harry's hands loosely, and cupped his cheek in the other. Slowly, almost waiting for Harry to pull away, Draco kissed the other trembling boy. Sparks did not fly, fireworks were not set off, love songs didn't sound from the stereo. Instead, two boys, one hopelessly in love, one scared beyond wits, kissed. Simply, one kiss. Nothing special. No 'come hither' looks were exchanged when Draco drew away. No hips were grabbed when both boys stood up. No tongues were licked and no lips were bitten when Draco said goodbye, and stepped into the fire. Instead, Harry hugged Draco, unsure of what happened, and let him Disapparate back home.